Penacle State
by Jenine Gail
Summary: REVISED VERSION. What would happen in Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco had never heard of magic and never went to Hogwarts? But what if Hogwarts still exsisted? What has happened to their magical knowledge, and most importantly, why aren't they saving the w


**Author's Note: **This is a REVISED version of a previous story I had written in 2003. There's no use asking about the old one, since it's in every way different. I know this first chapter is kind of long (but shorter than an average novel length chapter, keep that in mind), but I'm still extremely proud of it, so if you'd read and review I'd love you forever (and comment on_ your_ stories!). Kthnxbai.

P.S. Just so you all know, _there is still a Hogwarts_. But the characters don't know about it, or magic. It will all be explained in due time. As well, I put a lot of thought into my character development, so if you have any questions about why they are the way they are, just ask and I'll post the answer in the next chapter. Thanks.

"Hey, 'Mione, you like art class?"

"Hey, Derek, do I like any class?" Fifteen-year-old Hermione Granger unsteadily stood up and walked over to her boyfriend, Derek Peterson. She looked him in the face, but not the eyes, and couldn't help but sigh. He was perfect. Tall, handsome, dark black hair and piercing blue eyes, he was in the dreams of all the girls at school. She reached up and stroked the unshaven stubble that lined his jaw. Hermione couldn't help but love Derek's misguidance and irrelevance to rules. He taught her how to drink and how to skip classes, among other things she could never tell her mother. But that was the one thing Hermione absolutely loved about Derek. It was the fact that her mum absolutely hated him.

Hermione knew she was perfect for him, too. Underneath it all, she was only on the verge of good-looking. However, at a young age she had studied heavily into the art of makeup and knew just the way to make herself look hot. Even though her two large front teeth could use a little fixing. Hermione was the student to Derek's teaching. At the start of high school, she found herself completely moldable for her boyfriend. Then she turned into what she was. At times it was disheartening. No other girl in her school had the name "slut" said behind their backs so many times. Hermione, however realized that she _could_ do a complete one-eighty and change her ways, but her reputation would always stay the same. As she always said, "if people are going to make up shit behind my back, why can't I just save them the trouble and actually have fun doing it?" She had all the time after her education to get her life together, anyway. Now, she was just having fun.

"Where's Stan?" Hermione asked as she took a swig of her Malibu, almost falling over as she did so.

"Right here," Hermione turned around and saw her and Derek's best friend walking into the little crevice they had found in their ninth year. In his arms, he held a massive amount of spray paint cans.

"While you were passed out we decided to give ourselves a little education." Derek said, placing his hands on Hermione's shoulders. Stan laughed.

"It's about time for art, anyway. Who says we have to be in class to create materpieces?" Hermione smiled and caught a can from Stan. In her drunken stupor, she had forgotten it was still day time. The crevice under the bridge let in almost no light, making it seem like night constantly.

The three of them walked out of their hideout and to under the bridge. Stan shook up his can and began to paint.

"Hey look Hermione!" He laughed, "It's you!" Hermione scowled as she looked at his painting. Brown hair and two gigantic white teeth. She kicked dirt at him as she herself began to spray random squiggled lines across the dirty surface of concrete. Beside her, Derek sprayed their names together in a heart. She knew it was the alcohol talking, but Hermione couldn't help wishing that moments like these could last forever.

However, as everyone knows, all good things must come to an end. Stan had hardly finished his Dead Dog work of art when three police came running down the hill that led to their hideout, yelling like mad. Derek and Stan took no time in dropping their cans and getting the hell out of their. Hermione tried as well, but was caught by both the mickey of rum she had just consumed and a loose rock on the ground. She fell straight on her face and didn't bother moving until one of the police hand-cuffed her and brought her to her feet.

"Vandalism is a serious crime, miss." The man said, dragging her away from the paint. He picked up the Malibu bottle, "and so is underage drinking." Hermione couldn't think of doing anything else except vomiting all over his shoes.

The teacher's voice droned on and Harry Potter tried to take notes. The fifth spit ball of the day hit him in the back of the head; he shook his head violently to release the bugger, but knew it was no use. _Just another friend for all the rest, _he thought to himself tiredly as he wrote down another abstract math term.

Harry first came to St. Brutus's when he was eleven-years-old. At first, he was relieved to leave the confines of his aunt and uncle who had taken him after his parent's tragically died when he was only a baby. He was always forced to wear his overly obese cousin, Dudley's clothes as well as forced to suffer the violence of Dudley whenever he decided to bully Harry. Like most eleven-year-olds faced with such a situation, Harry believed coming to St. Brutus's would change his life for the better. However, he was terribly wrong. Even though he was freed from the bullying and tyranny of Dudley, Harry was still the skinny, innocent kid wearing hand-me-downs that were shoddily dyed the school colours. Another thing Harry had failed to realize was that St. Brutus's wasn't just any boarding school. In truth, it wasn't even a boarding school at all. In fact, its full name was St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. The thing Harry had overlooked while his eleven-year-old self was excitedly getting ready to leave his aunt and uncle's house, was that Harry Potter was not at all, in anyway, a criminal boy. Harry Potter was merely a scrawny, innocent boy with messy black, bright green eyes and a lightening bolt shaped scar on his forehead. He had never done a thing wrong in his life, unless you counted the times he accidentally made things explode with his anger.

So Harry immediately became the scapegoat of the rest of the troubled boys. Early on, he found it hard to decipher whether or not St. Brutus's was a step-up from his aunt and uncle's, but as time went on, he decided that he'd rather be beaten up by total strangers than a relative. Harry continued his studies at St. Brutus's and went home to Four Privet Drive every summer. He was completely miserable, but studied hard so after he graduated, he would be able to do whatever he pleased.

"Harry Potter, you're wanted at the office immediately." Harry looked up and saw the school secretary standing at the door.

"Wha?" Harry's mind was still swimming with undistinguishable math theories that he had yet to figure out.

"There's someone important to see you. C'mon." The secretary spun on her worn-out heel and left the classroom. Harry quickly got up to follow her and was completely showered with spit balls as he did so.

This was all very fascinating to Harry. Important people were never interested in him. In fact, he had hardly seen an important person before in his life. The only one he could think of was when he was eleven and received the only letter he had ever gotten in his entire life. The moment the parchment touched his hand, a man in what looked like and important suit (actually, it was quite a strange suit. As well, he wore the queerest trench coat over it. Harry had heard of a belt-less trench before, but this man's was ridiculous) bounded into the house and snatched it right from Harry's hands. His aunt and uncle never believed him when he told the story, of course. The thought of Harry Potter receiving a letter was utterly outlandish.

Harry walked into the headmaster's office and looked around. He had never seen it before, since he never was in trouble. The nurse's office was almost his home, yet the headmaster's was a strange sight. However, the strangest sight inside the office was the man sitting on a rickety chair that sat beside a door marked "Storage". It wasn't the bazaar clothing the man was wearing that made him stand out, no, for Harry had seen it all before. This man was the one who had taken the letter from him four years previous. When he saw the look Harry gave him, the man stood, smiled and held out his hand for the fifteen-year-old to shake.

"Ah, Harry. I see you remember me?" Harry slowly nodded. "My name is Mr. L.A. Storck. I knew your parents."

"…my parents?" Harry didn't believe his ears. The only people he had ever met who had known his parents were his aunt and uncle. Harry himself had hardly even known them.

"Yes Harry, your parents." Mr. Storck smiled warmly and nudged his hand towards Harry again. Harry slowly took it, shook it, and then let his hand fall limply at his side once more.

"So why are you here? And why did you take my letter?"

"All about the letter will be explained in due time, Harry. But now I have some important issues to discuss with you about your parents. Would you like to take a walk?" Harry nodded and took Mr. Storck outside the dreary concrete walls of St. Brutus's. He couldn't really understand why any person in their right mind would like to take a leisurely stroll outside the school, as it wasn't much to look at. The only landscapes to be seen were twenty-foot concrete walls topped with barbed-wire. Mr. Storck, however, seemed to quite enjoy the outside as once they left the building he took a deep breath and sighed.

"Beautiful day out, isn't it?" he said, eyeing the walls around him.

"Sure…" Harry looked to the sky; it was a grey as the walls. This Mr. Storck was turning out to be stranger than his attire. "So what was it you wanted to talk with me about?"

"Ah, Harry, getting straight to the point, just like old James." Mr. Storck laughed and tousled Harry's already messy hair. "I'm here to talk to you about your parent's fortune."

"My parents had no fortune," Harry shook his head, "nothing was left to me." Mr. Storck laughed again. He was getting on Harry's nerves.

"Oh yes they did, Harry. You were just never able to access it."

"Access it?"

"Yes. See, the money isn't in an everyday bank like you see on the streets of London."

"No?"

"No. The bank is hard to find and even harder to get into your account. What you need," Mr. Storck began digging in his pocket until he retrieved a large jagged-looking piece of metal. "Is a key." He handed the key to Harry who looked at it quizzically.

"So what do I do with this?" he asked turning the key around. This was definitely not like any key he had ever seen before.

"Absolutely nothing."

"Then why do I want it?" Harry was quite annoyed.

"Because it leads to you fortune!" Harry sighed and handed the metal back to Mr. Storck. This man was getting on his nerves. It was like he was talking in some sort of code. Seeing the look on Harry's face, Mr. Storck decided to delve deeper into details. "Harry, you won't be able to get to this bank, not even if you try. I'm not willing to disclose to you where it resides as I'm quite sure of myself that you'll go spending the money without a whim or a way." Mr. Storck gave Harry a look any father would inherit over years of negotiating simple things with their son. Harry felt a slight pain in his stomach. It was small things like this that made him miss his parents the most.

"I understand your reasoning. So then why are you giving me a key?"

"Well it's your money, Harry!" Mr. Storck laughed, but it no longer bothered the boy. "I want to make sure you have a key when you're ready to get into your account." Harry nodded quietly and let the silence take himself and the older man in as they walked the walls of St. Brutus's.

After a long while, Mr. Storck spoke up again. "I can tell, Harry, that you do not belong here." Harry nodded vigorously to that. "I must say, there was an alternate reason I came here today. I wanted to propose to you this," He handed Harry a pamphlet. On the cover were the words "Penacle State" in cursive writing. Under the name was a school much unlike St. Brutus's. The school wasn't lined with concrete walls, but with bright green trees and foliage. The concrete wasn't empty and cold, but warm and inviting. The sky, however, was what caught Harry's eye the most. It was bluer than anything he had ever seen. Looking back, the boy could hardly remember a time when he had seen such a clear sky. Computer generated or not, this was a school Harry wanted to check out.

"Do I have enough money to go here?" Harry asked. It was hard for him to take his eyes away. The thought of going to a place like Penacle State seemed almost ethereal.

"You have enough and more, Harry. Your parents were very rich." Harry tossed the recent news through his head over and over again until it tired him too much to do so any longer. Leaving St. Brutus's was something that had replayed in Harry's mind repeated times. He didn't expect it to come so soon, however, and now that it was, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Harry slid the pamphlet into the pocket of his over-sized jeans.

"So," he said to Mr. Storck, "when can I get out of here?"

"Hey Rosa. Could I get some towels brought up here? Thanks a lot." Draco Malfoy gingerly placed the phone back on its cradle and curled up on his bed. It didn't matter how long he had lived in the Ritz Hotel, London, everything still seemed like a delicate work of art to him. Even the bed sheets seemed like a tour de force. What were they? Seven-hundred thread count? Draco ran his fingers across the cream coloured fabric and waited for Rosa to bring up his towels so he could take a shower. There was a knock at the door and Draco jumped up.

Draco had decided only a few years into his life at the hotel that it took far too long for him to walk from his bed to the door. The Berkeley Suite was extravagant at least, a masterpiece at most. Walking into it, one might think they were taking a stroll into the Sun King's private quarters. If the Sun King had lived in the twenty-first century, that is. It was one of the most luxurious rooms any fifteen-year-old had seen. Rich colours and fabrics, works of art from 17th century France and amazingly restored antique furniture made Draco feel as if he had stepped into a time machine. It was all too much, however. One teenager didn't deserve something so excessive. He had a conference room, for god's sake. What would a high school student need with a _conference room_? Even the doors were elaborate.

"Oh. Hullo dad." Draco drawled unenthusiastically as he pulled open one of the intricately beautiful doors. Lucius Malfoy gave his son a look and Draco corrected himself. "Sorry. Hullo _father_."

There was a meek "excuse me" from behind Lucius and a small, plump woman with an armful of towels and eyes full of tears appeared. It was Rosa, one of Draco's personal attendants.

"Rosa! Thanks for the towels." Draco took the towels from the women, who immediately took off down the hallway.

"Remember what I told you!" Lucius called after her. Rosa didn't make any acknowledgement of what the man had said, but only continued to make her way to the elevator.

"What did you say to her?" Draco demanded. His father had a habit of making the hotel staff cry. Lucius gave a menacing smile.

"Nothing I've never said before." Draco sighed and took the long trek back to his bedroom. His family was rich, he knew that. He had recognized that when he was five-years-old and began living in the blasted hotel due to his father's "top secret" job that was "no place for children." The Ritz was in no way a motel. Any room could cost up to three-hundred pounds a night. Of course, the Malfoys were given a special discount since their son would be living there until his eighteenth birthday. As well, any car Lucius ever drives has the logo printed on the side. However, it was still ghastly expensive. As a child, Draco would get his kicks from wearing hard-soled shoes and walking around the vast lobby. He was the sympathy child to everyone in the staff. Even though his father had paid for only two personal attendants, Draco had twenty at most. It didn't matter the time of day, if Draco Malfoy felt like taking a stroll around the streets of London, there was always one person who immediately had his hand. They all just felt so sorry for him. What kinds of parents abandon their five-year-old child in a lavish hotel? The staff was smart, though. They understood how close they were to spoiling the child. So rules were set and boundaries were put in place. There was no room at The Ritz for an English boy's tantrums, and Draco understood that at young age. He was thankful for that. It scared him to think of what he would act like if they had let him do as he wished.

"This lamp is cracked." Lucius held one of Draco's French-inspired lamps up to the sunlight, making a face. Draco took the lamp from his father and examined it.

"No it's not. That's the way it's supposed to look."

"I certainly don't pay fifty-thousand pounds a year for them to give you trash for lamps. I'm calling down to the front desk so they can send you a new one."

Draco sighed. This was the splendour of being a Malfoy.

It was already October and Draco had only seen his father a total of three times in the past year. His mother, only once. Not that he was complaining. Draco never particularly liked his parents; he found them to be much too stuck up and stuffy. As well, they never seemed to be able to get his life straight. For example, they didn't know who his friends were. They had somehow just made them up. Lucius would often ask Draco about people he had never heard of before.

"So how is Gregory? I heard he took a spill last week?" Lucius asked his son, sitting on the unmade bed after he got off the phone with the front desk.

"Gregory who?" Lucius had done it again. He looked up with surprise, and then smiled.

"Oh, sorry son. I forgot you wouldn't know him." _Nice save, dad,_ Draco thought to himself, _but do **you** even know this kid?_

"So…" Draco leaned against a dresser, "what's with the surprise visit?" Lucius stood up and pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his trench.

"I've been thinking lately about how expensive you living here is becoming." Draco feigned disbelief, his father ignored him. "Your mother and I have found a suitable boarding school for you to attend." Lucius handed Draco the piece of paper.

"Penacle State?" Draco said, reading the heading. "I've never heard of it."

"It's the leading school in the country. I've already phoned them and they've promised me that you'll be treated like a king there."

There was a knock at the door and a "your lamp, sir!" from the other side. Lucius gasped in delight and ran to get it. Draco slid down onto his bed.

_ Like a king, _he though dully to himself, _I wonder what that will be like_?

Hermione slowly opened her eyes, but quickly closed them when the thought of vomiting consumed her once again. What time was it? She didn't know where she was. She didn't know what she had done. All she remembered was puking all the way to a police station. So was she still there? She opened her eyes again and choked back any urges she had.

There were dirty bricks to her right, and steel metal bars to her left. She was in prison. Hermione gradually sat up, noticing she wasn't on the bed provided, but instead on the hard ground. Bit by bit, the memory of her morning began to come back to her and questions immediately began to fill her mind. _Were Stan and Derek caught? And if they were, have they gotten out yet? What the hell time is it? _

Hermione walked up to the bars and peered out into the station. There was a clock hanging on the wall that read 9:45. PM? Where was her mother? Shouldn't she be bailed out by now?

It was then that Mrs. Granger stormed in and Hermione fully realized the meaning of the term _be careful what you wish for_. Her mother stood in front of the bars, there was fire in her eyes.

"What did you think you were doing?" Hermione didn't answer. "Answer me, Hermione!"

"Sorry mum. I'm sorry."

"Why weren't you at school?"

"Sorry mum."

"Was that boyfriend of yours with you?"

"Sorry mum." Mrs. Granger looked about ready to reach through the bars and choke her daughter.

"You know, Hermione, this is costing me money I'm just not ready to spend."

"Sorry."

"Your father and I have discussed your situation and come up with one simple solution. We're sending you to boarding school."

"Sor--what?"

"We're sending you to a boarding school, Hermione." Mrs. Granger pushed a pamphlet through the bars that fell at Hermione's feet. "Don't worry; it's not an all girl's institution. We thought about that, but after deliberation, we've decided that it's about time you met some more decent boys." Hermione slowly picked up the pamphlet and read the cover.

"Penacle State? How absolutely amazing."


End file.
